From Here to Oblivion
by Ariqa
Summary: The Sect: a covert international organization that trains dark magic specialists. Chapter 4 updated Feb. 4/2008.
1. Monologue with a Sociopath

Disclaimer: I own nothing. HP is my addiction. Rowling is my pusher. The things I would do for another fix...

* * *

**Chapter 1: Monologue with a Sociopath**

_ They say anticipation of death is a thousand times more frightening than death itself. My victims would argue otherwise. Maybe it is the torturous foreplay preceding said demise that could refute that particular theory. Maybe it is the uncertainty of what lies beyond this mortal prison. Heaven, Hell or the prospect of nothingness aside, ultimately everyone ends up as worm chow in the cold uncaring ground. Agnostic – me? Nah the only religion I cradle is the gospel of the knife. Then again it is very self indulgent to argue afterlife philosophy being that I am a sociopath with existentialist leanings. And yes I know where the bodies are buried… because I put them there. Some call me assassin and believe me when I say I've been called worse. Few know me as Vengeance, V for short. If I possessed another name, its existence resides forgotten amongst bones, ashes and decay. But I digress, another day... another death._

* * *

Immutable rituals have enslaved me for well over a decade. At dusk I resurrect, observing a strict regimen of meditation and exercise. _It sounds all new age fruitcake hippy… I'll admit but it's the only barrier between me and my inner psycho. _If I concentrate hard enough I can feel each molecule of my being resonate with acute and complete awareness. True power originates from within. It infiltrates every motion… every breath… every heartbeat in silence… serenity… and stillness. I quest for this perpetual grail. This balance between mind, body and magic is mythical, all consuming and in the end unattainable.

I stretch in seamless transition of stances taken from Tai Chi, yoga and nameless ancient fighting techniques. The repetition is soothing; it is an intricate symmetry of defending and attacking. From fingers to toes flexed in threatening poses, I am a weapon. Correction I am a machine calibrated by programming and instinct. Perhaps I was born imprinted with these steps as they are more natural to me than thinking. My shadow is a critical study of moves executed in fluid angles and perfect speed. Relentlessly I drill, lunging and parrying, boxing and kicking an enemy that lurks within the alleyways of my imagination.

These martial formations have never once deviated from their millennia instilled teachings – until now. Training and discipline abandons me. Unexpectedly my gentle movements surge into faster more forceful ones. Amidst the chaos of pushing and pulling limbs, an unbidden fury encroaches upon my warrior sanctum. Fury is a beast once leashed in oppressive apathies. It feasts on my hatred and laps up my pain. It claws an escape through these caged muscles with a penchant for violence and a lust for self annihilation. The laws of physics do not rule its jungle realm. The limitations of physical anatomy do not define its prowl. That tiny fragment of humanity I cling to devolves into something raw, something unfettered and vicious.

Time blurs, I stop when I can scarcely stand. It hurts to move but it hurts more to stay motionless. Basking in the tempest of my actions I stagger from the unforgiving concrete floor. Bruises and welts flare like guilty trophies. I realize that I will repent for the body's transgressions. _And then I realize that I will have to clean up this sodding mess._ There are huge dents gaping in the brick walls exposing a cathedral of rusted copper pipes and ravaged wiring. Several wooden practice dummies are splintered beyond all salvation. Muted moonlight filters through the stain glass of cracked and filthy windows harshly emphasizing the destruction.

* * *

Rage and adrenaline vanish down the shower drain beneath a glacial blast. The momentary lapse in control earlier is unsettling. I am unwilling to reflect upon its catalyst. Instead I persevere with these clockwork ablutions, my reptilian emotions barely intact. Methodically I tie back my hair with a garrote, unable to confront the monster masquerading as my reflection. My teeth are brushed and flossed until they gleam because my dentist was a Spanish Inquisitor in a past life. Bandaging an injured bicep, I let the antiseptic seep stingingly into the cuts to remind myself that stupidity is rewarded by suffering.

Frantically I rummage through the cabinets in search of my 'medicine'. Although the residual evidence of last night's misadventures has been scourgified, I need some… chemical assistance to numb the memories. _Bollocks! _There is nothing but empty flasks remaining. I suppose in the meantime I will have to rely on my three best friends: denial, repression and delusion. A trinity which is most unholy, fuels this farce of a conscience. _Lies keep me sane. Sadly they do. _My deception to the rest of the universe is so absolute that even I have trouble extracting fact from fiction.

The tank top, leather pants and boots in which I attire myself are coloured in unrelieved black. Glyphed bracers encase my forearms, the taut leather spidering like rippled veins against faintly scarred flesh. Lastly I throw on a tailored knee length (yes you guessed it black) trench leaving every button except the top two undone. Its infinite pockets hold a myriad of potion vials and some not quite legal paraphernalia. _Just call me the biohazardous apothecary slash walking bomb. _The narrow sleeves are custom fitted to release a wand (and the occaisonal blade) for quick draws. Standard issue mercenary gear: perfect for all nefarious activities. It is always utilitarian, comfortable, and conceals bloodstains like no one's business.

* * *

"Aperio." The mirrored walls divide to reveal my personal arsenal. Swiftly I assess my extensive collection with an experienced so many lovely instruments to choose from: magical or mundane, sharp or blunt, from a distance or up close and personal, it is a pity that I have to limit myself to what I can carry… I'd take the whole lot if it were possible. _Is it not the accessories that really make the outfit pop: Assassin Chic 101? _

After performing a few measured strikes I decide against my treasured katana. Caressing a finger along its exquisite edge, I draw blood deliberately. In fascination, I marvel at the runed steel as it absorbs the crimsoned sacrifice. Legend proclaims that this sword is cursed so that whenever it is unsheathed, blood must spill. Apparently the previous owner failed to heed this warning and died mysteriously of a self inflicted disembowelment. _How tragic when one does not read the fine print of a curse._ _Oh wait was I responsible for that disembowelment?_

Reluctantly I settle upon a belt rigged out with stilettos, a plain but versatile standby. The hilts are flawlessly balanced. They can be thrown with lethal accuracy yet delicate enough to perform surgical incisions.

Guns may seem superfluous to a person who can kill with two words, but there is nothing like the smell of gunpowder in the morning or is it napalm? I have kept a silver bullet locked and ready in the chamber of a .357 magnum in preparation of a certain furry little problem. There is enough hardware here to wage an urban war of Tony Montana magnitude. Glass jars stored ammunition like candy in a confectionary shop. The crate of incendiary devices is marked with a cartoon depicting Wiley Coyote holding a stick of dynamite. _And they say that arms suppliers don't have senses of humor?_

Wrath and Fury are lovingly polished before they are strapped into wand thigh holsters. _Psychotic, that is a definite affirmative._ I name my weapons, at times I even sleep with them. Their curves and lines are more intimate to me than a lover's body. They speak to me in languages that no person can fathom. More than a tool, more than a companion they are an extension of myself. There are days when I feel more naked without their presence than I would without clothing. Needless to say those are never the red letter days.

You ask why my obsession with such dangerous playthings. The answer is pragmatism. Although I am capable of transfiguration, I typically find myself in situations where I dare not waste words or expend magic needlessly. In truth, a master artisan can craft an item of quality and elegance that would make mockery of the pathetic substitutes I attempt to conjure. Transfiguration requires intense focus to maintain an object's transformed structure lest it gradually revert back to its natural state. I for one trust an authentic blade over a transmuted one. _Not to mention the fact that I almost flunked out of transfiguration in school. _Could you imagine being in a fight and having your sword change back into a carrot? It would bring disgrace to assassins everywhere.

* * *

Breakfast is a red, viscous and utterly revolting liquid that I can barely stomach. Nothing short of ripping out my tongue and soaking my taste buds in acid could rid me of its vileness. The temptation to chase it down with Ogden's whiskey is fierce. However I require clear wits and unhesitating reflexes in this line of work. Having the liver divorce me and take the kidneys as settlement would be incentive enough to refrain from throwing myself into an alcohol induced coma. The nasty dregs curdle in its unmarked bottle, long since deserted in the sink. Opening the fridge shows more of the same damnable piss along with your everyday poisons and black market concoctions. Choices and more choices, undoubtedly downing the arsenic would be considered an act of mercy.

An all too familiar sensation wrenches me from my culinary musings. Four symbols etch themselves into my palm: an eye, a hand, a dagger and a skull. Oh joy, thus a new mission beckons. Tentatively I touch the still bleeding eye and the name Igor Karkaroff appears in beautiful but excruciating calligraphy on the back of my hand. _Fortune thy lady's grace smiles upon me._

Although Karkaroff has been missing for months, his whereabouts should pose no challenge. Turn over enough stones and our cockroach in question will appear and try to scurry away before he is squashed. I could probably track the Russian from the reek of his cheap cologne alone.

The hand symbol yields an image of a swirling aquamarine shard. My curiosity is piqued. For his sake I hope he will surrender this object quickly. If possible I prefer to conduct business in a civilized fashion. When all else fails, one can always be … shall we say less than civilized.

It should come as no surprise that the dagger translates into torment … namely his. Tracing the dagger's outline reveals the number 13 and a sun followed by flame. Thirteen days of interrogation by fire. Fire is a paradoxical entity. The flames causing the wounds can also seal and purify them. Only a seasoned professional possesses the knowledge and the delicacy not to burn away all the nerve endings. After all if the subject feels little pain that would defeat our purpose would it not?

Karkaroff will pray for death long before it is granted. His imagined screams percolate throughout the recesses of my cranium. The agony will be searing … white hot … unbearable. Cauterized flesh and the stench of singed hair are merely inconvenient details that accompany the task. _Finding a drycleaner who asks no questions and performs laundry miracles will be next on my agenda._

Lastly the skull represents his obituary, a testament to his years of murder and betrayal. After hours (312 to be exact) of my _gentle ministrations,_ his demise will seem a kindness, a reprieve, or a get off my shiitelist card if you prefer. Igor Karkaroff is an arsonist whose life will be extinguished by fire. The irony illuminates my face into an approximation of a smile. _I pity him. Well almost._

Clenching my fist tightly, the marks begin to close, scabbing at first than fading away except for the tingling aftermath. Why my employer refuses to invest in a cell phone is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps I should not have asked for a palm pilot, who knew that he would be so literal. Supposedly he likes these crude and arcane methods of communication. Privately I think he likes causing me discomfort. _What a twisted and sadistic bastard he is._ Instructions carved into skin are reinforced more poignantly than a text message. It only serves to remind me that I am death's minion. I should have paid more attention on career day.

* * *

Metal stairs ascend to a rooftop exit. The reinforced door unveils a cool and foggy evening sky. A dozen locks secure themselves behind me as I heavily ward my lair with protective spells. This factory loft is unplottable and nestled in an obscure corner of an unremarkable industrial area in an undisclosed city. The pitchforked villagers have yet to uncover my fortress of solitude and secrets. _Those pesky vacuum salesmen are another story even though I keep insisting that I have hardwood floors. _Paranoid … who me? The accusation is perfectly justified. Paranoia has kept me alive. When you hunt down and kill Death Eaters for a living, leaving out a welcome mat would be like painting a bullseye on your arse.

There are two things I guard more zealously than privacy: my motives and my identity. A black titanium mask melds against my features like a second skin; its expression devoid of emotion mimics my own. Slipping on a cowl of disillusionment, I dissolve into the encompassing darkness. Precariously I crouch, poised along the edge of the building, restlessly surveying the night, its empty streets and forlorn piers. With uncharacteristic contemplation, I gaze up at the stars, willing the quicksilver orb of the nocturnal sun to pensieve out my thoughts. Arms spread out in defiant supplication I plummet backwards off the ledge. Dust in the eye of a whirlwind.


	2. Mercenaries Assassins and Spies Oh My

**Chapter 2: Mercenaries, Assassins and Spies Oh My**

"Were you seen?" Minerva McGonagall peeked out her cottage window cautiously before closing the shutters.

"Not a single soul witnessed my arrival, Professor." Nymphadora Tonks grinned cockily, running a hand through her hair. Her customary pink locks sported an alarming garish tartan pattern.

"Nymphadora with hair like that I am surprised that people from the next village do not know that you are here. Undoubtedly they would be able to spot you from miles around." Minerva commented dryly unconvinced of the younger woman's idea of inconspicuous disguise.

"Just wanted to match your décor." Tonks teased before plunking down onto a sofa with the matching tartan cushions. "No worries I kept myself conservative until I arrived at your place. Auror. Me. Remember? And call me Tonks." The metamorphmagus poured a cup of chamamille tea before helping herself to the plate of freshly baked ginger newts.

"Tonks did you bring it?" The older woman sighed in exasperation as she looked at the spilt cream and knocked over sugar bowl. Maybe next time she should perform an unspillable charm along with the unbreakable charm on her company china.

"Sorry about that. Uh of course. It's …" Fumbling through her pockets, Tonks brought out a leaky quill, a few sickles covered in gum, a half eaten sandwich and a polka dotted brassiere which she stuffed back into her coat with profuse embarrassment. Finally she found the velvety package after pulling out a never ending tangle of handkerchiefs courtesy of the Weasley twins. The delicate object went flying as Tonks tripped over the braided throw rug covering the parlor floor.

As it sailed over her chesterfield, Minerva snatched the package out of the air with feline reflexes. Unwrappng the luxurious material she placed the opaque orb onto an antique writing desk. She gratefully remembered that all of her fragile possessions were packed away prior to the young auror's arrival. _Except for the vase given to her by Mundungus Fletcher which was most likely a stolen chamberpot from Grimmauld Place. _To her consternation it would not shatter no matter how many times she displayed it during visits with Tonks.

"Place your palm on the orb." The orb emitted its automated instructions to which the stern looking lady complied. "Identity confirmed: Minerva McGonagall."

"Good afternoon Professor McGonagall." A rich baritone stated.

"Director Noir."

"Have you considered my proposal?" With the pleasantries out of the way, the director appeared eager to proceed with business.

"Your proposal is too accept would endanger the lives of my students." She explained stiffly.

"It is too late for that, they already are in danger. In fact we all are." The voice shifted into its low feminine counterpart during mid sentence. Conversation with a Sect's director was always unnerving. The orb's voice alterating properties were said to help hide the identity of the speaker and perhaps more importantly their intentions.

"Does the _Ministry_ approve?" Minerva's disapproving emphasis on the word ministry was not lost on the rest of the group. After Hogwart's 'Umbridge Experiment', she cared little for the Ministry of Magic's interference in the education system. Dropping them into the Dark Forest for a guided tour with the centaurs and acromuntula would be frowned upon but highly effective.

"They are in the dark with regards to our plans. No different than usual. We have no wish to mire ourselves in the bureaucratic quagmire that passes as the government these days." The disdain in Noir's childlike voice was apparent.

"And what of your superiors?" Abruptly, Minerva clattered her teacup on the table.

"This operation does not have the consent of the Covenant Council. Deatheater cells are organizing in Eastern Europe. The Voldemort situation is swiftly escalating beyond our projections." The director admitted grimly.

Alastor Moody stomped out of the kitchen and startled Tonks who lounged casually in a rocking chair. Though she toppled over, the chair and cushions were the only casualties. _Mundungus's vase was unfortunately whole._

"So why isn't the Sect helping us? This is not a time for predictions and estimations. People are dying here and the government is too busy playing cricket with their bats up their arses!" Moody interrupted venomously banging his fist upon the desk. It was common knowledge than many ministry officials were lining their pockets with galleons and properties confiscated from suspected Death Eaters. _I'd eat my wooden leg if even a quarter of them were guilty._

"Alastor." Minerva warned sharply.

"No let him speak. Truly I commiserate with you Auror Moody. But without a majority vote in the Council, the Sect can not officially involve itself in what the rest of the international magical community views as a domestic dispute. Your ministry is still recovering from the fallout of Fudge's mismanagement. Scrimgeour, while a man of action has not been successful in convincing the Wizengamot to involve our organization. In their arrogance, they prefer to handle the situation internally." Noir's neutral tone belied the bitterness of his words. _Translation: ministry policy is more bunged up than Madam Pince eating raw unripened pumpkin._

"Dispute! This is a bloody war! Voldemort is spreading chaos and hate faster than the Black Death. Kidnappings! Interrogations! Murders! People are afraid to leave their homes. All we have are useless pamphlets and the reassuring white lies sold by the ruddy newspapers." Moody's magical eye spun wildly as his rant continued.

"We have hope. And we have each other." Tonks interjected quietly. The surrounding silence was volatile with tension.

"You have allies. Myself, and a few colleagues would like to offer our services to your Order. Granted it is strictly off the record. Operatives have been dispersed to various hot spots on the continent to observe Death Eater activity." The director recovered his composure quickly.

"Of course, we appreciate any efforts you are willing to contribute to our cause." Minerva replied politely and shot Alastor a threatening glare as he snuck a sip from his silver flask.

"What are a few wands and eyes when Voldemort has gathered thousands?" Moody snorted contemptuously as he consulted his dark detector.

"Our resources are stretched far too thin with world terrorism and nuclear armament on the rise. The muggle issues have been given a higher priority on the global stage. We can not openly fight them with any effectiveness." Noir sounded weary.

"We need to stop him now before the violence reaches genocidal proportions. Will it take six million deaths before anyone acts?" Moody's mercurial anger simmered dangerously. His face was inches away from the orb, the spittle from his mouth striking the surface with each harsh accusation. Professor McGonagall pulled him away from the desk before he could smash it.

"I am well aware of history. The atrocities under Grindewald's regime are not to be forgotten. I concur that Voldemort must be eliminated by any means. The men and women who volunteered for these missions risk more than their positions to do so. Be assured that any Death Eater they identify will not be given the leniency of a trial." Noir insinuated darkly. This appeared to satisfy Moody who grunted his assent.

"It is not your politics that we question. We are extremely concerned about your methods and motives. The ruthless reputation of your organization is well known. The lessons the Sect ingrains in its members go beyond the realm of the Dark Arts. I can not condone that the children be taught the knowledge of mercenaries, spies and assassins. They should not have to fight as soldiers." Minerva looked away from the smiling faces in a black and white photograph she was gripping tightly.

"I am not here to justify the actions and beliefs of my agency. Nor am I here to discuss the nature of the Sect's business. This meeting is to reinforce our commitment to helping the Chosen One and his companions fulfill the prophecy. I merely ask that we have the Order's consent before commencing in their training. We are well within our rights to recruit those of age without your permission." The censure in the gravelly voice caused Alastor to bristle with indignation. The grizzled ex auror clomped away slamming the door before he could pollute the air with regrettable words.

"They are too young." Tonks murmured. _As were the people in the photograph, the original Order of the Phoenix_

"Most of the potential candidates are only slightly younger than our cadets when they first take their vows. You know as well as I do that a Death Eater will not discriminate when it comes to killing. Young, old, rich, poor, pureblooded, muggleborn, magical or muggle anyone can die. Their innocence for your scruples, would you sacrifice their lives because you find the realities of war distasteful?" Noir issued his challenging argument with deadly calm.

"You will have our answer this evening." The headmistress dismissed Noir curtly. Tonight she would convene a meeting of the Order to discuss the Sect's overtures.

"As you will." Noir acknowledged as the glittering orb grew dark.

"Transmission ended." A mechanical voice intoned.

* * *

Tap. Tap. Luna Lovegood opened her bedroom window to retrieve the owl post. After feeding the messenger owl a vanilla biscuit she looked curiously at the package addressed from Hogwarts. _Strange it is too soon for the Hogwarts letters to arrive. _Meticulously she untied the string and wrapped it around her string collection ball. Luna found two letters and a velvet covered object inside. The first letter read:

_Dear Miss Lovegood,_

_ Given these dangerous times, it has been proposed that your education be supplemented with additional experiences. A private organization has provided the use of their facilities for your instruction. Their curriculum is unorthodox and the practicum will be vigorous. Your involvement is entirely voluntary. _

_Sincerely._

_Headmistress Minerva McGonagall_

The second message was more cryptic than the first:

_Salutations Ms. Lovegood_

_ You have been invited to a summer internship with the Sect. It is an elite organization whose graduates include aurors, militia and members of several international security agencies. The program will be challenging and intense. It will last for 8 weeks. Please do not accept if you can not dedicate the time and effort to this enterprise. If you are deemed suitable for permanent recruitment we will contact you upon graduation of seventh year. Any questions can be asked at orientation tomorrow. In the interest of security, discretion is of utmost importance. The portkey enclosed with these documents will activate at exactly 9:00am tomorrow morning. If you choose not to accept, the documents and portkey will self destruct at 9:15 am. _

_Best regards._

_Director Noir_

Dreamily Luna stared at the crystal prism while she wondered what she would tell her father about attending 'summer school'._ Ah well the hunt for Heliopaths would have to wait until next summer._

* * *


	3. Welcome to the Sect

**Chapter 3: Welcome to the Sect**

Five minutes to nine, she watched the sphere glow ominously on her lilac dotted bedspread. There were consequences to inaction. If she allowed the portkey to explode then she could enjoy a lovely vacation in Barcelona with her family. Maybe she could work on her tan and flirt with some dark haired Spanish boys. Sighing she knew that she could not go to Spain with a easy conscience. After Dumbledore's death, nothing would ever be the same again. War was here, lines were drawn and sides were chosen.

She could not pretend that she was safe because pure wizarding blood flowed through her veins. Although she was not one of the Golden Trio, she knew she had a role to play in the conflict. Neutrality was not an option. Her parents considered enrolling her in Beauxbatons but she wouldn't abandon her friends. Besides, her French was terrible and the cuisine too fattening for her figure. Privately, a small vindictive part of her wanted to make Ron eat his heart out for dumping her last term. Lavender Brown touched the sphere tentatively and was sucked into the vortex.

* * *

Seamus Finnegan studied the rivetted walls and mirrored ceiling of the hexagonal shaped room with alarm. There were no doors or windows in this bluely lit chamber. The room was empty except for a green prism set in a marble podium. His trunk and belongings were nowhere to be found. He was left with his wand which he clutched anxiously. Even the cube portkey he was holding had disappeared. _What have I gotten myself into?_

"Subject Seamus Finnegan identified. Recruitment Program 1.1 commencing. Please read and sign the required forms. To permanently leave the program, say the code word: 'exodus' to be transferred to the departure processing area."

A quill and scroll materialized in the air. The Irish boy caught both items before they hit the ground. Upon unrolling the parchment, he discovered that it was a waiver and contract. Seamus wondered if he needed a barrister to interpret the legal jargon. Several areas needed to be signed and initialized in triplicate.

I certify that I Seamus Finnegan do herby declare… All applicants will be subject to a series of psychological, physical, intellectual and magical tests… In case of accidental dismemberment or death (_that sounds bloody scary)… _Solemnly vow not to reveal the identity of the sect's members, staff, students and or affiliates from the past, present or future… Noncompliance to Sect rules and regulations will result in disciplinary action (_please no corporal punishment I bruise easily)…_ All activities at the training facility will be monitored closely by security and personnel…

* * *

All correspondence with the outside world will be screened thoroughly _(what is this Azkaban?) _… Failure to meet academic and fitness standards can and will end in ejection from the program and immediate removal from the premises… Inform infirmary staff of any medical conditions, curse afflictions, pregnancy (_hah like that would happen)…_Upon signing this document I verify that I have read, understood and agreed to the stipulations stated in the above paragraphs…

Lavender's eyes were sore from reading and rereading the ironclad demands of the contract. Some of the guidelines bordered on insane but she was not going to shirk her responsibilities. Surprisingly they did not request that she sacrifice her firstborn but that might have been hidden in the fine print somewhere. Staring at the dreary rusted walls she wondered how such a powerful organization could neglect to hire a proper interior decorator. Shuddering she wondered if she would be forced to wear a dreadful uniform or worse cut her hair! The idea of testing concerned her. If she had known beforehand maybe she could have prepared and studied. _Honestly Lavender you're beginning to worry like Hermione Granger._

"Please drink the verisateum provided before undergoing the Starr-Junta-Wei Profiling procedures." A glass of clear liquid appeared on the floor as the voice intoned about standardized questioning. Tentatively Lavender swallowed the potion and hoped that they would not ask anything embarrassing.

"We will begin with your sex life. Are you currently sexually active?" _What the hell?!_

"Yes." She turned beet red and counted to ten. _Please Merlin, don't show my profile to my parents or I will be grounded until I marry. _

"How many partners have you had?"

"Thr…Five." Lavender started to rub the temples of her forehead._ This was going to be a very long day._

"Have you ever engaged in any deviant acts?"

"..."

* * *

Pacing around the room, Seamus halted and banged his head against the wall. _Why does everyone and their granny think that I am a poof?_ To each there own but he wondered why everyone made that assumption. After admitting his virginity and his 'alone time' rituals, he suspected that this was all a cruel joke.

"What kind of pet do you own?"

"A dog." Relief filled Seamus who was grateful that the sexual interrogation had ceased. He had heard some rude stories from other blokes but never in such dodgy details. When he got home, his priest would have an apoplectic fit during confession if he ever repeated what was explained to him.

"Have you ever harmed any living creature?"

"I've not." The boy frowned as he would never hurt his wolfhound St. Paws.

"Have you ever contemplated killing a person?" _What kind of mental question is that?_

"That be mad." His outrage spiked in squeaky retort.

"Under what circumstances would you murder someone?"

"To protect me family and me mates, I suppose."

"If you had to kill someone, what method would you prefer?"

"..."

* * *

"Not even at school and I have to write an examination." Lavender grumbled to herself as she flipped to the last page of her twenty-five page exam. When she completed the last question the quill and paper disappeared before she could look over her answers. Nearly falling over, she stood up as the chair and table disappeared from beneath her.

"You will be fitted for your uniforms shortly. Afterwards please change into appropriate attire before the fitness portion of your assessment begins."

The brunette squeaked in horror as her clothing vanished and she found herself standing in only her lacey purple knickers. Scowling she covered herself with her hands futilely. There better not be any video orbs involved as she would not want to appear in Witches Gone Wild. An enchanted measuring tape appeared and zipped around her head. Reluctantly she spread her arms out to be measured while sucking in her gut and pushing out her chest. The tape measured her several times impatiently, slapping her slightly when she moved out of position. It pulled the tissues from her bra before wrapping around her bust for the third time. _Impertinent thing. _Her hips read 35 inches and her waist read 28 inches.

_ "_Hey I demand that you measure me again." _No good lying inaccurate excuse of a measuring tape. _Sighing, Lavender vowed to refrain from chocolate frogs as the tape continued to measure her legs. _My thighs can't be that big, argh if I get my hands on that ruddy tape I'm going to rip it to shreds._

She eyed her neatly folded wardrobe with dismay. _Where was Calvin Klein when you needed him?_ It consisted of: 7 pairs of socks, 5 t-shirts, 3 tank tops, 3 pairs of pants, 2 jumpers, 2 pairs of shorts, 1 swimsuit, 1 bodysuit, 1 utility belt, 1 wand holster, 1 set of robes, 1 jacket, 1 cloak, 1 pair of boots, 1 pair of trainers and 1 pair of handguards. Everything was a dark grey except for the shoes, socks, belt and handguards. _What a terrible color for my complexion, although I suppose I could accessorize, perhaps a scarf and some jewelry. _Gingerly she put on a pair of shorts and prayed that they did not make her bottom look wide.

* * *

It was a good thing he decided to wear his freshly laundered shamrock boxers today. _You never know what sort of cameras may lurk behind those mirrors. _He half expected Creevy to apparate in and snap a picture. Self consciously he flexed as if he were posing for Playwitch.

"Oi! I be not 5'7, I be 5'7 and a half. Measure me again you sodding piece of…" The tape wrapped around his mouth, silencing him before he could complete his sentence.

His height was a sensitive topic for the fiery boy. Seamus was also ticklish and squirmed while the tape measured him. At one point it nearly strangled his neck. As it measured his inseam, Seamus was nervous that it would measure his man bits since it was mercilessly freezing in the room. The tape flicked him across a bum cheek when he tried to grab it. _Fekking tape. _Tangling in the length, he stumbled and attempted to recover his dignity by tying the tape into knots. Sensing danger, the tape disappeared. Disappointed that his gear did not include weapons, Seamus threw on his clothes and laced up his trainers preparing for the next challenge.

"Recruit, observe the golem before you and copy its movements." He glanced at the tall animated dummy that was stretching its legs on the floor. _There be no way a man can stretch like that without risking his family jewels. _Groaning Seamus mimicked the golem as it took him through a series of warm up exercises. After twenty minutes of this he was sweating and that was when the real hell started…

* * *

Lying on her back, Lavender panted heavily. Her body felt as if it finished a triathlon. When the golem had attacked her, her first instinct was to knee it in its groin. Unfortunately the dummy was not affected by this ploy as its golem plums were non existent. She tossed the golem over her hip and proceeded to kick the stuffing out of it. Those Judo lessons were useful. Gulping down a goblet of water, she replayed her actions in her mind. There was something exhilarating about destroying that golem particularly after a long and arduous morning.

"You have been assigned a designation of LB148. Cadet Brown follow the guide orb to your destination." A door revealed itself and slid open before the exhausted girl who shuffled outside eagerly. A floating orb whirled above her leading her down the hall.

It was only 5 o'clock in the evening according to a wall clock but she desired sleep. _Please let the beds be soft. _Cruel fate conspired against her as she realized the corridors led to a circular atrium and not to the dormitories. For the fifteenth time today, Lavender cursed herself for ever touching the bloody portkey.

* * *

_ What possessed me to portkey to this devil forsaken place? Because I am Ireland's biggest git that I am. _Seamus thought longingly of the football match he could have been watching with his cousin Patrick. Then they would have visited the pub for a quick pint and a basket of fish and chips. His stomach rumbled traitorously at the thought of food. There better be good grub in this place or at least decent takeaway.

Feeling bruised and battered after wrestling with the golem, he rubbed his sore ribs. If his best friend Dean Thomas questioned him later, Seamus would deny that he had shrieked like a banshee when the fekking dummy began whaled on him like a bongo drum. As if the hour of intense calisthenics was not enough to do a bloke in, the surprise attack was underhanded. He could picture Dean wetting himself as the same thing undoubtedly happened to him. They would have to compare scars later. Chuckling, he curiously thought about which other students from Hogwarts might be here as well.

As he exited the doorway, Seamus kept repeating his designation in his head. Maybe he could get it tattooed on his back. _Seriously cool, the lasses would dig that. _Then he thought of his disapproving mother and banished the idea from his consciousness. His mam was not the type of woman anyone would wish to cross. She was terrifying, right up there with You Know Who and Ol' Scratch himself. He would willingly face a battalion of golems instead of facing her. He remembered that he did not mention to her that he would be spending summer here instead of at Dean Thomas's home.

* * *

A glass dome enclosed the ceiling of the atrium. Rain pattered against the windows with the coming of dusk. Ivy grew up the walls which were encrusted with crystals emanating a soft golden light. Lush topiaries groomed in geometric shapes occupied the center along with a white granite dais. Benches and hedges separated the eight archways leading away from the atrium.

As people appeared from different corridors they greeted each other cordially. Some were friends… some were enemies. The chatter stopped as the teenagers noticed that a woman stood quietly amidst them. Beautiful she was not, but her aquiline cut features, flawless creamy skin and those black penetrating eyes made for a striking countenance. Curly dark hair spun with brown highlights was pulled back into a ponytail by a ribbon. She wore no makeup or jewelry except for a knotted string of blue pearls. The grey pinstriped suit was conservative but well tailored on her tall slim frame. In heels she stood shy of six feet. Except for the wand holster at her side, she would have looked more like a businesswoman than a witch. Authority and poise radiated from her demeanor. Every eye was riveted on her graceful stride towards them. If she were wearing robes the elegance of the swish would make Snape envious. Her chocolate voice melted through the silence.

"Good evening cadets, I am Dr. Crimson. Welcome to the Sect."

* * *


	4. Tripping Down Memory Lane

**Tripping Down Memory Lane**

The air tasted of summer orchids and something metallic… something crimson. Crimson - the room was submersed in this vivid hue. It contrasted obscenely with the stark elegance of the white furnishings - splattering the engraved windows. Its violence desecrated the high vaulted ceilings creeping down the silk screened walls in a diffuse tributary of rivers and blossoming stains. The color seeping into the paper lanterns, casting a kaleidoscope of light so blinding it seemed a surreal dreamscape.

Glass shards glittered like a spill of rubies against the pine floor slick with this pooling wetness. A toddler knelt upon the hazardous mosaic immune to the stings and the feel of clothing saturated in stickiness. Humming a favorite lullaby, the little one continued finger painting in hopes that that grownups would tire of their statue game. They lay there, unmoving… unseeing… and uncaring in an eternal slumber not comprehended by the innocent.

Footsteps echoed hollowly in the stillness… approaching closer. A crystal wind chime danced in an unnatural breeze. Discarded papers began to swirl around the room, the rustling lost in the mournful howl. Paintings fell from their hooks as the gale intensified. The tables and chairs were blown towards the edges of the room, the wood splintering like kindling. Steel sculptures levitated and smashed into the debris.

A hooded figure glided malevolently towards the unsuspecting survivor barricaded in a vortex of calm oblivion. _Looking upwards at the intruder's reflection in the mirror, I was paralyzed by a disturbingly familiar gaze._ _Eyes consumed by the everlasting fires of Hell met mine…_

* * *

The blood red sun submitted to its overlord sky. Here a prison of trees whispered around the clearing. Hieroglyphics glimmered electrically upon the frost kissed stones marking off a pentagonal shaped area. Circling the combat ground slowly, a tall man with artfully tousled hair studied his young charge's practice maneuvers using a bamboo staff.

"Concentrate!" Hawkish emerald eyes narrowed as he observed his disciple with increasing dissatisfaction. Torches flared to life as he strode along the borders of the arena, weaving in and out of the encroaching shadows.

Clad in a shapeless grey tunic and breeches, a child stood barefoot on the freshly fallen snow. Bowing in acknowledgement, fragile features were schooled to show no emotion… no discomfort to the unrelenting winter or the hours of grueling exercises.

"Again!" The teacher roared. Blades sliced through night, intent on injuring the child who fended them off expertly.

Grunting from exertion, the disciple pole vaulted through the air with a gravity defying kick before landing in a clumsy crouch. Breath threatened to explode from the child's lungs. Fingers blistered raw, the child dropped the staff and collapsed.

"Inflatiaro!" Lightning blue sparks burst at the child's feet, the force propelling the small body backwards several yards away.

"On your feet, your enemy will not wait patiently while you rest."

"Sir." With a lowered gaze, the child rose swiftly to obey.

"Never abandon your weapon for it may be the last thing you ever do." His harsh reprimand was followed by the staff sailing through the air like a javelin towards the child's heart.

Instinctively, the child caught the weapon before it could strike. Twirling the bamboo deftly between its hands, the child's proud and defiant battle stance amused the teacher.

"Training is finished for now. I have more important matters to address." He dismissed his exhausted student with a curt nod.

As the child turned away to exit the field it stopped when a chocolate cake materialized on a nearby boulder.

"Happy Birthday." The barest ghost of smile escaped his stern expression before he apparated abruptly.

_ I blew out seven candles._

* * *

"I'm sorry." He mumbled remorsefully his gaze downcast at his scuffed boots.

"I'm not interested." Willfully she tossed her head of flaming tresses with the intention of walking away from the pallid boy.

"I'm sorry!" Fearful that he would never get a chance to apologize to her, he touched her shoulder to stop her from leaving.

"Save your breath." Shrugging his hand off, she backed away.

It was night-time. Lily, who was wearing a dressing gown stood with her arms folded in front of the portrait of the Fat Lady, at the entrance to Gryffindor Tower.

"I only came out because Mary told me you were threatening to sleep here."

"I was. I would have done. I never meant to call you Mudblood, it just… "

"Slipped out?" There was no pity in Lily's voice. It's too late. I've made excuses for you for years. None of my friends can understand why I even talk to you. You and your precious little Death eater friends – you see, you don't even deny it! You don't even deny that's what you're all aiming to be! You can't wait to join You-Know-Who, can you?"

He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking.

"I can't pretend any more. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine." Her eyes glossed over with sorrow.

"No – listen, I didn't mean…"

"To call me Mudblood?" But you call everyone of my birth Mudblood, Severus. Why should I be any different?"

He struggled on the verge of speech, but with a contemptuous look she turned and climbed back through the portrait hole …

Dejected he walked down the corridor towards the stairs, unaware of the shadowy watcher concealed behind a statue pedestal.

_ Snape's private humiliations did not concern me - I had my own pain to choke on._

* * *

He was gone. No flowers or mourners flocked around the grave. Kneeling before the plain headstone, the youth's silent contemplation was interrupted by a kindly voice.

"I am sorry for your loss." Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes reflected his sincere condolences.

"Thank you Headmaster."

"Do you have any family to stay with for the summer?"

"I am an orphan sir."

"Perhaps with the circumstances surrounding Mr. Trovolli's death, you should consider staying with the Prewetts for a while."

"The McNairs have offered to take me in."

"Your guardian's associates are dangerous. Be careful. You have a bright future ahead of you and many difficult decisions to make. I hope that you will never have to regret any of them."

"Your concern is duly noted but I will no longer be attending Hogwarts. Before Ademo died, he enrolled me at Durmstrang."

"So I see. Allow me to be the first to wish you good luck. Durmstrang is a fine school. If you ever need anything don't hesitate to contact me."

"I will. Sir, may I be left alone for now?"

"Of course." He bowed and departed discreetly.

Ademo Trovolli: guardian, mentor, father figure… and Death Eater. Murdered by his compatriots and mourned by no one save the solitary figure by his grave.

_ Everyone leaves me. A letter addressed to me fluttered at my feet._

* * *

"I hoped you would be the one to find me." Even with his back facing towards me, he knew that I was near.

_ So much for stealth. _It was not the first time I wondered if he had eyes in the back of his head. Exasperated at being detected I scowled at his carelessness. One should never give their back to an adversary lest they find a knife sticking out of it.

"If I can hunt you down so easily, what makes you think that the others won't catch you?"

"Maybe I want to be caught." His devil may care drawl while charming to his legion of admiring girls from our school days, infuriated me. The folds of a black hood concealed his arrogant expression.

"Damn it, why did you have to steal from him?" Disbelief… anger… concern threaded through my question.

I needed to know why he would betray our master. I needed to know why he would risk his life so recklessly. No mere bauble could sway his allegiances. _Or so I thought._ Young, rich and newly elevated heir to an old and powerful pureblood aristocracy, his future was golden. He was betrothed to a respectable girl of comparable wealth and family connections. There was no logical reason to throw away everything. There had to be something he was not telling me.

"It had to be done." His elusive explanation caused me to study him more intently as his robes slid to the earth. Strong fingers stroked the outline of a skull carved mask.

"This is not a game. You know the consequences." My clichéd admonishment made him smirk.

"Perhaps this is payment for my sins." The ironic admission amused him.

"What are you talking about?" I rolled my eyes at him. He always was a man of melodrama. But lately he appeared haggard and withdrawn. There were lines in his expression that I had never noticed until that moment. Lines that spoke of experiences beyond schoolish pranks.

"So he really keeps you from the everyday dealings of our little organization doesn't he? I've always wondered why." His face grew pensive as if he sought the answer.

"I know enough." Shuddering involuntarily I turned away to stare at the beacon of light illuminating the foggy shore.

"Leave with me… while you still can. We can go where they can't find us." _No such place exists, wherever I go, he will follow. _

His entreaty shocked me. I knew that Regulus Black was not a coward. I suspected his actual motives but there were some things best left unspoken.

"I refuse. Unlike you, I am still loyal to the cause." I hid my lie with a calculated dosage of spite.

"That's a load of bollocks. What's the real reason?" He always saw through my carefully crafted deceits and manipulations.

"He'll find out about her."

"It's always about her, this mysterious friend of yours." His voice sounded almost jealous.

"You're my best friend. No you're more like a brother to me. Don't make me choose. I promised to protect her. I'm all that she has." I folded my arms over my chest.

"Where was she when you became a Death Eater? Does she know what you've become? You follow a fucking murderer!" He threw his mask into the darkness to the hungry waters below.

"Shut up! You don't know what the hell you're saying." The anger flared within.

"Then I'm not going. I won't leave without you." His stubborn logic floored me.

"You must, they're coming! Run before they reach here!" I beseeched him.

"It's too late. They see us. You have to kill me."

"I won't do it." Adamantly I refused.

"You must or he will punish you." _Again with that logic._

"I don't care. Just go."

"I'm tired of running."

"Then stay and beg for his forgiveness. Give back whatever you took from him."

"I won't give it back. The Dark Lord must be stopped."

"Don't be a fool." _Maybe I was the bigger fool._

"It would be better if you killed me. They'll torture me for weeks before letting me die."

"If I must, I will but don't make me." I was lost in a tundra of realization.

"Finish it." His voice was resigned to his fate

"It won't hurt. I'll make it swift and painless as possible." My hand trembled as I unsheathed my katana. I could not stand to look at him but the least I could do was send him to the gods with honour.

"V. Tell my brother that I'm sorry."

"I swear it. Goodbye my friend."

"Maybe we'll meet again one day." He stepped off the edge of the precipice.

"REGULUS NO!" I screamed futilely, my voice swallowed up in the roaring surf. Through the mist he fell to where the ocean crashed into the cliffs.

* * *

I awoke in a sweat and bolted towards the kitchen. Rummaging through my potions shelf I smashed all the empty bottles into the fireplace. That night I was visited by the spectres of my past_. God forgive me._


End file.
